


What I did On My Holiday Vacation

by Wonderlandleighleigh



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: But I did my best, Futurefic, Gen, don't try to make this work in continuity cuz it doesn't
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-18 08:17:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21991090
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wonderlandleighleigh/pseuds/Wonderlandleighleigh
Summary: He wouldn't be Tim Drake if he didn't have a mystery to solve. And this one's a doozy.
Comments: 25
Kudos: 117





	What I did On My Holiday Vacation

“Master Timothy! Welcome home.” 

The warmth in Alfred’s voice is a comfort against the chilly December air around him as he lugs his bags from his car up the driveway. His first semester of med school had been brutal, but was thankfully wrapped up. He wasn’t due back to school until February for the Spring semester. 

This meant going home. 

Wayne Manor during the holiday season is lit with festive lights and with all of the snow Gotham has gotten in the last week, it’s no surprise that there is an army of snowmen in the garden. 

Alfred holds the door open as Tim steps inside, and once he sets his bags down, the older man is pulling him into a brief hug, before pulling back to look him over. 

“You look exhausted,” Alfred accuses him. 

“I’m in medical school,” Tim grins. “And I’m me. I’m supposed to look exhausted.” 

“Well, you’ll get plenty of rest while you’re here,” Alfred promises. “Take your things upstairs, and I’ll fix you a nice cup of cocoa.” 

“Coffee?” 

Alfred lifts an unimpressed eyebrow. 

Tim huffs and grins. “Cocoa it is. See you in a few.” 

***** 

The house is blissfully quiet, and Tim makes his way from his room back downstairs without incident. “Everybody on patrol?” he asks as he steps into the kitchen and takes a deep breath. The smells of chocolate and steamed milk and a hint of peppermint permeate the air.

“Quite, sir,” Alfred nods as he settles a large steaming mug in front of him. “Though it hasn’t been too hectic. As I understand it, it’s been a little dull since you left for school.” 

Tim frowns. “Huh.” 

“I believe Master Dick called it ‘Rogue Depression.’ It happens every time one of you children disappears from the streets. I believe both Poison Ivy and Two-Face have been demanding to know your whereabouts.” 

“Well...that’s...strange.” 

Alfred grins a little as Tim starts to sip his cocoa. 

“Ah, I almost forgot. Something came in the mail for you the other day.” 

Tim frowns and sets his mug down. “I thought everything was being forwarded to my on-campus place,” he comments, tilting his head as Alfred hands him a thin yellow envelope. 

“I suppose someone didn’t get the memo.” 

He opens it and sticks a hand in, pulling out a flimsy piece of a newspaper clipping, reading it as he picks up his mug again. 

It freezes halfway to his lips as Tim realizes what he’s reading.

“What is it?” Alfred asks, looking mildly concerned. 

Tim slowly settles his mug down again, leaning forward onto the kitchen island as he reads the clipping again, and then one more time. 

“Master Tim?” 

He takes a deep breath and sets the clipping down, staring at it. “It’s an obituary. It’s my mother’s obituary. But it’s not the one that ran in the Gazette.” 

“I...I’m afraid I don’t quite understand,” Alfred says carefully, as he slides the clipping over to look it over to read it. “Janet Esther Drake died overseas on September the second, in Haiti. She is survived by husband Jack Drake and son Timothy. Born Janet Esther Weiss, in Brighton Beach, New York-” 

“I was told she was a Gotham native,” Tim cuts in. 

“Janet spent her formative years traveling around the United States and parts of South America, before settling in Gotham City and marrying Jack Drake. Together they started Drake industries, mostly run by Jack, while Janet kept traveling on her own.” 

Tim throws his arms up in frustration and confusion. “Doing what?!” 

“Well, I don’t know, sir,” Alfred admits. “Master Bruce and I barely knew your mother, and your father was...often difficult.” 

“No kidding,” Tim mutters, taking the obituary back. “It talks about her charity work, but it also keeps mentioning her travels. Alone. Where was she going? Did Dad know? He must have, right? They weren’t traveling together. What was she doing?” he shakes his head. “And why wasn’t this the obit in the Gazette?” He turns the obituary over, but finds little information to help his search. 

“I’m sorry, Master Tim, I wish I had more information for you,” Alfred apologizes gently. “Perhaps Master Bruce has something in the databanks.” 

Tim huffs and downs the rest of his cocoa in one swallow. “It’s coffee time.” 

***** 

The databanks don’t give him much. Most of the files are about him, with more information on Jack than on Janet. 

Tim sits back, gazing up at the screen at the information, the scrap of newspaper in front of him on the keyboard and a cup of coffee in his hands. 

“Hey! Look who’s back!” 

Tim grins a little and turns in the chair, finding Dick hopping off his motorcycle and pull his helmet off. “Hey.” He stands up and lets himself be hugged by his older brother, who squeezes him tightly. 

“You look good,” Dick grins. ‘But tired.” 

“I’m a med student,” Tim reminds him. “I’m always tired.” 

Dick chuckles and lets him go, turning to the oversized computer screen. He frowns as he takes in the photos and information. “What are you up to?” 

Tim takes a breath and hands him the obituary. “That.” 

Dick skims it, before looking at him quizzically. “I don’t get it. It’s your mom’s obit.” 

“Except it isn’t,” Tim clarifies. “That’s not what ran in the Gazette.” He leans over and taps the keyboard, bringing up the page that actually ran. “This did.’ 

Dick blinks and leans in, reading it. “...Huh. Nothing about her travels...no mention of Brighton Beach...or her maiden name…” 

“Somebody wanted it covered up,” Tim says. “I got the clipping in the mail.” 

“From who?” Dick asks. 

“No idea,” Tim shrugs. “It was addressed to me, but other than that, nothing but the clipping.” 

“Handwriting analysis?” Dick asks. “Where’s the envelope?” 

Tim lights up. “Hey, that’s good. It’s up in the kitchen.” 

“Go get it,” Dick says.

Tim pouts a little. “I’m already down here.” 

“Then you’re lucky I brought it with me,” Alfred chuckles as he steps over, handing him the envelope. “Along with Master Bruce’s evening tea.” 

Tim snatches it. “Alfred, you’re the best.” 

“Quite, sir,” Alfred chuckles softly. “Now if you’ll excuse me,.” 

Dick watches the older man walk away with the tea tray before turning back to Tim. “So...what are you thinking you’ll find?” 

Tim grimaces and looks down at the envelope, rubbing his fingers over it gently. “I...I don’t know. I try not to think about my mom too much, y’know? When I was younger she was such a big influence in my life. Even when they were away, she always called.” 

Dick grins sadly and grips his shoulder and takes the envelope. “Why don’t I put this through for handwriting analysis. You head to the Gazette and talk to Vikki.” 

“You think she’s there this late?” Tim quirks an eyebrow. 

“Please. That woman practically lives there,” Dick jokes. “Go.” 

Tim sticks around long enough to watch Dick feed the envelope into the computer for analysis, before heading upstairs to his car.

He’ll always miss his parents, but he’s damn grateful for the family he has now.

***** 

The Gazette is busy, but that’s not a big surprise. It’s the holidays in Gotham, which means at least one villain is planning a Santa Claus-themed crime. 

Tim dodges between reporters and photographers, following Vikki Vale as she moves quickly. 

“I have a question. Ms. Vale.” 

“Unless you wanna talk about your family’s ties to the Batman legacy, I don’t care,” she says bluntly as she heads back into her office, and tries to slam the door in his face.

Tim catches it and opens it slowly. “I promise I won’t take up too much of your time,” he promises. He settles the obituary on her desk. “I just need you to tell me about this.” 

Vikki frowns and picks it up, reading it quickly and freezing. “Your mother’s obituary.” 

“But not the one that ran,” Tim says. “The one that ran is shorter. Different. Cookie-cutter.” 

Vikki takes a breath and sits down. “I was a copy editor back then. I’d worked my way up from getting coffee to fact-checking, and Candy Calhoun was writing obituaries as…” she smirks a little. ‘It was kind of a punishment for pushing too far in an interview with the mayor.” 

Tim sits down, pushing his hands into the pockets of his coat, leaning in to listen. 

“And Candy did what Candy always did,” Vikki grins fondly. “She took what she was given and she dove deep into these people’s lives and wrote the best damn obituaries you ever read...she knew your mom. She was devastated when she died.” 

“She still around?” 

“Passed away last year,” Vikki tells him. “We almost ran with this, but at the eleventh hour, somebody called and demanded the obituary be changed. They paid us a boat-load of money reprint the issue, but Candy saved a couple of copies of the original. I think she gave one to your dad.” 

Tim stays quiet, thinking all of this over. “Why would someone want that obituary changed? What was my mother doing traveling all over the place?” 

Vikki shrugs. “Candy mentioned she was a helluva lady.” 

“She wasn’t around very much before she died,” Tim admits. “I have fond memories of her but I don’t know if I actually knew her very well.” He glances at Vikki again. “Were there any other articles about her that the Gazette did? Before the obituary?” 

She groans. “Tim. I don’t have time-” 

“Just let me loose in the database, I promise I won’t screw anything up.” 

This time Vikki growls. “Fine. Fine. But you get a half-hour. That’s it.” 

***** 

He walks away with seventeen articles about Janet Drake. 

Most of them are about her charity work; an opening of a children's hospital ward she helped open here, a women’s shelter she supported there…

But there are a few articles that detail other things. Her Yale law degree and close work with ANTIFA and the ACLU in the years before Tim was born.

The last article is the one that puzzles Tim the most, and he lays on the floor of the cave, just under the enormous dinosaur, reading it over and over again. 

Above him, Cassandra peeks down curiously, her Orphan mask off, her hair messy from a night on patrol.

He grins and sits up. “Hey, Cass.” 

“Welcome home,” she says, sitting down next to him and snatching the article, reading it slowly. “Janet...Drake...assaults neo..nazi leader.” 

“Seriously?” Duke says as he walks up to them. “Your mom was cool.” 

“Yeah, she was pretty cool,” Tim agrees, nodding and laying back down. “Turns out I didn’t know very much about her.” 

“Your handwriting analysis finished,” Bruce says as he walks over, handing him the results and the envelope. “No matches.” 

Tim blows out a breath, reading it over. “Damn.” 

“Welcome home,” Bruce tells him, as Tim sits up and gets to his feet. “Alfred told me about the clipping you received.” 

“Did you know any of this about her?” Tim asks curiously. 

Bruce gives him a vaguely guilty look as he pushes his cowl back. “To be honest, after she died, I...I left it alone. You were in a lot of pain...your father was in bad shape. What your mother was or did didn’t seem terribly important at the time.”

“And you never picked that thread back up?” he holds up the article, showing him the black and white photo of his mother’s fist connecting with the chiseled jaw of a very large, very angry white man. 

“Oh, no,” Bruce chuckles, taking the article. “This I read about. Your mother definitely had a reputation before you were born. She seemed to calm down after that.” 

“Did you know she was born in Brighton Beach?” Tim asks. “Everyone always said she was a Gotham native.” 

Bruce takes a breath and nods for Tim to follow him over to the filing cabinets that sit lonely in a corner of the cave. “There are certain records I put off digitizing…” He opens one of the drawers, and inside Tim can see the headers on manilla folders. 

“Grayson,” Tim mutters as he reads. “Todd...Brown...Thomas...Drake.” He blinks and looks at Bruce. “Our parents’ files?”

Bruce sets his jaw and nods. 

“You didn’t want us stumbling on it in the system and traumatizing ourselves by accident,” Tim surmises. 

“I know how it feels to be blind-sided by the past,” Bruce comments, pulling out the file on the Drakes and hand it to him. “Put it back when you’re done.” 

Tim nods as he starts flipping through. “Thanks, Bruce. I will.” 

As the older man walks away, he keeps flipping through news articles, and even a few interviews with his parents, that he’ll have to sort through. When his phone dings, he juggles the stuffed folder, and juggles to grab it from his pocket, squinting at the news alert on the screen. 

Tim’s mouth falls open as he reads the headline.

****

**Haitian Crime Lord Obeah Man Found Dead in Max Security Cell in Blackgate Prison.**

“What the hell?!”

***** 

“I’m tellin’ you, Timbers, I got nothin’ on this one.” 

Tim huffs as he paces. He’d tracked Jason down to one of his safe houses, and his older brother watches him, slightly worriedly. 

“No big loss, though, right?” Jason says slowly. “Obeah Man was a fucking stain on humanity. Didn’t he kill your mom?” 

“Yes!” Tim explodes, stopping in place. “That’s why this is a big-” he stops and takes a breath, blowing it out. “Somebody sent me a copy of my mother’s obituary. But it was a version that never ran in the Gotham Gazette. Vikki Vale says somebody paid to have that version edited and the paper reprinted. Somebody sent me a copy. And now Obeah Man is dead.” 

“Brutally dead,” Jason corrects him. “Word is somebody paralyzed the guy and then went to town. And he was awake for all of it. All he could do was scream.” 

“But they had no idea who was in there with him?” Tim asks. 

“Not a trace,” Jason shrugs. “By the time the guards got off their asses, he was way dead, and whoever did it was long gone.” 

Tim’s mouth twists as he starts pacing again.

“Welcome home, by the way,” Jason snickers. “How’s med school?” 

“Fine,” Tim sighs. “Thank you.” 

“This really has you in knots, huh?” 

“You wouldn’t be?” Tim asks. 

“What do I know?” Jason snorts. “One mom was a junkie and the other was a liar. There’s not much I wanna know.” He reaches out and takes the file from him, flipping through it, and tilting his head. “Huh.” 

“What?” 

“There’s a series of interviews in here with your mom,” Jason tells him. “By Lois Lane.” 

Tim freezes, stares, and then scrambles to grab the file, looking them over. “Huh.” 

“Another lead to follow up on, huh?” Jason smirks. 

“Or I could throw on my uniform, and check out Blackgate.” 

“Why not both?” Jason smirks. “Call Lane on your way.” 

Tim frowns at him deeply. “You’re encouraging me to put the suit back on? You’re not gonna get all freaked out because I’m supposed to be retired?” 

“You gonna wear that crap brown bodysuit thing that made you look like Mr. Hanky the Christmas Poo?” Jason asks. 

“Mr.-” Tim purses his lips. “No.” 

“Then I don’t give a shit. Go.” 

“I’m gonna get you back for that Mr. Hanky thing,” Tim tells him, pointing a finger. 

“Get out of my safehouse before I give you a wedgie.” 

***** 

“Hi, Lois. It’s Tim Drake.” 

“Tim! Hey! How’s med school?”

Tim grins as he speeds his bike down the highway, cape blowing in the wind. Bruce had updated his old Red Robin suit to fit him as an adult, and it’s a relief. The red and black fit well, and the cowl feels snug and protective. 

“Good,” he says. 

“Kon’s not here, he’s meeting us for the holidays at the Farm next week,” Lois tells him. 

“Oh, I uh...I actually called to talk to you.” 

“Oh?” Lois asks, and Tim can hear in her voice that she’s raising an eyebrow.

“You interviewed my mom a bunch, back in the day,” Tim says. “I wanna know about it.” 

“Uh...okay,” Lois says, sounding confused. “She was doing a ton of work for the ACLU at the time. She was a very talented lawyer before she had you, you know. She took on some serious stuff.” 

“Was this when she punched the nazi?” Tim asks. 

“You saw that, huh?” Lois chuckles. “Yeah, they were protesting a Holocaust museum going up in Gotham City, and she was working with to make sure all the i’s got dotted and the t’s got crossed. Back in the day, before Batman became a really big deal and made it very clear that nazis were not going to be tolerated in his city, they would pop up sometimes and cause problems.” 

“So…” 

“So your mother was walking into the museum space one day, and one of them grabbed her by the hair and called her a dirty Jew, and then suddenly, he was missing a tooth.” 

Tim nearly hits the car in front of him, before speeding up and passing them. “Wait. I’m confused. My mother was Jewish?” 

“Uh...yeah. You didn’t know?” 

“I…I guess I don’t know much,” Tim says sadly. “I didn’t get a chance to read the interviews before I headed out...Obeah Man was murdered in his cell in Blackgate.” 

“I know,” Lois says. “You okay, kid?” 

“I...I don’t know,” Tim admits. “I guess.” 

“I didn’t know your mom all that well,” Lois says. “She was very professional, and she got a lot done, first as a lawyer, and then work with Drake Industries. She moved to Gotham from Brighton Beach. Her family was Eastern European and most of her mother’s side died in a concentration camp.” 

“Her mother?” 

“Hailey, I think,” Lois tells him. “Started with an H. But she escaped the Nazis, and came here. Started a new life, eventually had your mom...” 

“Hailey Weiss,” Tim mutters. “She still alive?” 

“No,” Lois says. “She passed away before your parents met, I think.” 

Tim pulls up to Blackgate, frowning as he pulls his helmet off and looking up at the prison. “How did she die?” 

Lois blows out a slow breath. “She killed herself.” 

He closes his eyes. “The survivor’s guilt and PTSD…” 

“There wasn’t much help for things like that in the fifties and sixties,” Lois confirms. 

“Yeah.” 

“I’m sorry, Tim.” 

“Yeah. No. It’s okay. Thank you so much for all your help. This has opened a lotta doors.” 

“Let me know if you’ve got other questions,” Lois says. “Good luck, Tim.” 

“Thanks.” He ends the call, before flipping his comms on. “Hey, Babs.” 

“Welcome home, Tim,” Babs’ voice rings through the line. “What’s up?” 

“You mind doing me a favor?” 

“Sure. You’ll just owe me.” 

Tim grins, despite himself. “Can you pull everything there is to know about Hailey and Janet Weiss of Brighton Beach, New York? They woulda lived there in the sixties.” 

“Okay,” Babs says. “Uh...who are Janet and Hailey Weiss?” 

“We’ll talk later,” Tim promises. “I gotta go see a dead guy.” 

****** 

“Haven’t seen you around in a while,” one of the guards - Abel Miller - comments as Tim looks around the cell, taking in the details carefully. “Batman sent you, right?” 

“Yep,” Tim says without batting an eye. “He definitely did.” 

The cell is like something out of a nightmare. There’s blood everywhere, and Tim nearly steps in something red and squishy. 

“That’s uh...part of the guy’s heart,” Miller explains.

Tim freezes, and then turns to him. “His heart was ripped out?” he asks, eyes widening behind the cowl. 

“Big time,” Miller tells him. “We found half of it. That was put into evidence, but we uh...missed some pieces.” 

“What…” Tim stops himself, takes a breath. “What happened to the other half.” 

“The coroner says that judging by the bite marks on the half we found…” Miller takes a breath, too. He obviously does not want to have this conversation. “Somebody ate it.” 

Tim stares for a long, long moment. “Did the uh…” He swallows, feeling slightly queasy. “Did the tox report come back?” 

“Yeah it’s back.” Bullock gallumphs up then, handing him a piece of paper. 

He reads it quickly, and he feels like the air leaves the room. “Jimsom Root.” 

“Nasty stuff,” Bullock nods. “You heard of it kid?” 

Tim swallows, gripping the paper tightly, remembering Bruce’s words the day his mother had died.

_“Jimsom Root extract. It’s a nerve toxin.”_

“Uh...yeah. Yeah once,” Tim fumbles. “Once.” 

***** 

He doesn’t go straight home after that. 

Tim hops off his bike, looking through the gates at Drake Manor, in all of its abandoned glory. 

It’s still his house. He still owns it. Dana lived in it for a little while after Jack Drake died, but she moved out within a year, not wanting to live there alone. 

Tim takes a breath, pulls out his keys, unlocking the gate and wandering onto the property, wandering around. He finds a lone lawn chair to sit in, taking a breath as he lets memories wash over him. 

Of running around the halls as a little boy. Of lonely nights spent on his own while his parents were out…

What was his mother even doing? 

“Who were you, Mom?” Tim asks softly into the night. “A lawyer? A business woman? A nazi fighter? Who were you?” 

***** 

When he finally makes it home, parking his bike in the cave, he’s exhausted. He’s got a text waiting for him from Babs, probably about the Weisses of Brighton Beach, but he figures it’ll keep. 

“How was Blackgate?” 

Tim freezes on his way to the locker room to change and sighs, turning toward Bruce. 

“I’m busted, huh?” 

Bruce lifts an eyebrow. “You could say that. Aren’t you retired?” 

“There’s something going on here, Bruce,” Tim says. “Something...something bigger than I first thought at the start of the night.” 

“Obeah Man?” 

“Somebody poisoned him with Jimsom root, removed his heart, took a bite, and then left.” 

Bruce looks thoughtful, narrowing his eyes. “The poison that killed your mother. But what about the heart eating?” 

“It’s such a personal act,” Tim mutters. “It’s such a weird power move.” 

“It can wait until morning,” Bruce tells him. “Get some rest. Pick it back up with fresh eyes.” 

Tim deflates. “I just feel like I’m getting close. To what, I don’t know, but...but to something.” 

“It’ll keep,” Bruce promises. 

***** 

__

_Not much on Hailey Weiss. Sad, but standard for a Holocaust surivior. Not much information about her life in Europe. Maiden name is listed as Rabin. She escaped Ravensbruck to London, then landed in New York. Married Joshua Weiss (who owned a local deli) about a year after getting here. She was a housewife in Brighton Beach who did some sewing for neighbors to make a little extra money. A few years later they had a daughter: Janet. ___

_  
___  
  
  
  
  


__

____

_Who married your dad._

_  
___  
  
  
  
  


_What’s going on?_

Tim sighs as he sits up in bed, reading his text messages. The one from Babs is one he’ll have to deal with sooner rather than later, but he lets it be for now, and doesn’t bother to check this other texts. From Kon and Steph, Cassie and Bart. He’ll get to them all.

But before he does, he needs a shower, some coffee, and to head out for an important lunch date.

***** 

“Girls! Your brother is here!” 

Audrey and Abigail Watson are three, and adorable, and Tim can tell as he’s mowed over, letting the squealing little girls tackle him to the floor of the front hall of the Winters-Watson household that Dana is incredibly proud and over the moon for her daughters. 

Tim couldn’t be happier for his former stepmother. 

He laughs and hugs the girls. “Hey, guys. Long time, no see.” 

“Doctor Drake,” Dana teases. “You haven’t been by in a while.” 

“Future Doctor Drake,” Tim corrects her as he gets to his feet, setting each of the twins upright as well. “I’ve got miles to go, Dana.” 

“I don’t care,” she tells him, giving him a tight hug. “I’m still proud.” 

“Where’s Allen?” Tim asks, looking around the small but neat house. 

“Business trip,” Dana tells him. “He’ll be home in time for the holidays, but til then, it’s just us. So I’m grateful for the adult company. C’mon. Lemme take your coat.” 

Soon, Tim and Dana are sitting at the kitchen table with coffee and some homemade coffee cake, while the girls play in the adjoining living room. 

“So? How was your semester?” 

Tim nods. “Good. Hard. It’s nice to be home.” 

Dana smiles and sips her coffee. “You look good.” 

“Thanks. I feel kinda dead. But thanks.” 

“So? What else is going on?” she asks.

Tim takes a breath and watches the girls in the living room for a moment before turning to Dana. “Can I ask you some things?” 

“Of course,” Dana says automatically. “I can’t promise to have all the answers, but I can try.” 

“So…” Tim purses his lips before gazing at Dana again. She looks older; older than she looked the last time he visited, during the summer. Or maybe he just hadn’t noticed then. After everything that happened...his father’s death and Dana going into shock and needing intensive care and therapy...

He feels bad about that. He always will. But he knows why Dana looks older. He’s just happy that she was able to start over and find happiness again after it all. 

“So how much did my dad talk about my mom?” 

Dana looks thoughtful, sitting back with her coffee cup cradled in her hands, keeping them warm. “Rarely,” she admits finally. “I think it was painful for him to talk about Janet.” 

Tim nods, looking down at his untouched slice of cake. “I wish I had known her better. Been able to spent more time with her.” 

“That wasn’t your fault,” Dana assures him soothingly, laying a hand on his arm. “It was her job, as your mom, to make time; to invest in a relationship with you.” 

“Do you think she was just uninterested?” Tim asks quietly. 

“No,” Dana says. “I think that she and your father believed they had very important work to do. And that’s fair, but you should have been more important.” 

Tim nods, thinking that over. 

“If it helps, you’re important to me. And I know you’re important to Mr. Wayne and the rest of your adopted family,” Dana smiles as she gets up to get them both more coffee. “Dick Grayson hadn’t heard from you in a few days, and he called here to ask if I had.” 

“Wow, really?” Tim laughs, watching her. 

“Yep,” Dana laughs too, as she imitates Dick. “‘Well uh...if you see him, Mrs. Watson, could you please let him know that Dick wants to know how he is?’” 

Tim laughs harder, shaking his head. “Yeesh. What a worrywart.” 

“It’s hard when kids go away to school to live their lives for the first time,” Dana smiles. “I know your dad was dreading that before he died. He used to pace a hole in the floor, talking about what schools you should apply for and how things would be when it was just the two of us and you were gone at college.” 

“Wow. Really?” 

“Oh, yeah. I know he was tough to get along with, but he really loved you,” Dana grins, handing him the refreshed coffee. “So? More questions?” 

“Yeah, actually,” Tim nods, taking a sip from his cup. “Do you still have the keys to the storage unit with my parents things?” 

*****  
The storage unit is climate controlled, which is nice on cold days. 

Tim steps inside, pulling the door down behind him and looking around. The space is filled with furniture and boxes, lamps and the accoutrements of a life lived in luxury. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, living in their home as a child, or at the manor afterwards, but it is strange to look at it all now, in piles and just...left here. 

For what? 

Why has he kept all of these things for so long? The belongings of people he never really knew all too well; who didn’t know him as they should have. 

If it had not been for the case he’s working (because if Tim’s honest with himself, this is definitely a case now), it’s likely that he never would have set foot in here again; never would have caught the faint smells of his mother’s perfume, or listened to the familiar creak in the chair he slowly takes a seat in. 

He misses them. 

He does.

He’s just not sure he misses them as much as most people miss their parents when they die. Their tragedies didn’t drive Tim to be a hero, like Bruce and Dick. He doesn’t think about them every day, and he doubts they would want him to.

Some parents make their children their whole lives. He was a footnote. 

His phone pings then, and he frowns as he takes it out. More texts from Stephanie. More from Kon. The most recent one from Bruce. 

He opens it.

__

_Coming home for dinner? Alfred made your favorite._

__

Tim grins a little and types back.

____

_Had to make a stop. Be home soon._

He tucks his phone back into his jeans, before grabbing the only box with his mother’s name on it.

*****

He shuffles back into the manor, holding the box later that afternoon. 

“Wow,” Babs’ voice says. “Gunning for the title of greatest detective, huh?” 

Tim turns around and finds the redheaded woman leaning against the entrance to the front sitting room. He huffs out a breath. “Strange things are afoot at the Circle K, Babs.” 

She smirks as she follows him into the sitting room. “Talk to me, Ted Theodore Logan.” 

“Well, Bill S Preston, Esquire,” Tim says as she sets the box down. “I got a copy of my mother’s obituary in the mail...but it wasn’t the one that actually ran. Ran the handwriting on the envelope, and no dice. Went to talk to Vikki at the Gazette and she had some tid-bits, including letting me weasel my way into their archives, which was useful, but…” 

“Still not much?” 

“Not really,” Tim admits. “After that, I get an alert on my phone...the man who killed my mother had been killed at Blackgate. Poisoned with the same root that he used on my mom, and then had his heart removed and chomped on...and I went to see my stepmom today, she didn’t have anything good, but I managed to grab the key to the storage unit with my parents’ things. So here I am.” 

Babs listens intently before sitting down. “That’s a lot of noise, Tim.” 

“Yeah.” 

“And not a lot of results.” 

“Yeah.” 

Babs tilts her head at him. “I have an important question.” 

“Yeah?” 

“What are you trying to gain from all of this?” she asks. “What do you wanna know?” 

Tim blows out a breath. “I wanna know who my mother was,” he admits. “And...and I wanna know who sent the obit, and why. And I wanna know who killed Obeah Man, and why. But right now, all I have are questions. Everything happened so fast...I talked to Lois Lane, which is how I wound up with the name Hailey Weiss…” 

“Your grandmother,” Babs nods. “Sad story. I mean, for people in Hailey’s situation they were mostly sad stories.” 

“There’s nothing about her life before moving here?” Tim asks. 

“No,” Babs says, sitting back, narrowing her eyes. “But it wasn’t like a lot of the other stories I’ve seen, where there’s no information because the Nazis were just that thorough. No, it was almost like things about Hailey’s life had been redacted. As if someone was looking to hide things about her past. Her family.” 

“What about my mom?” 

“Grew up in Brighton Beach, went to law school, super talented,” Babs tells him. “Crushed all sorts of bad people in the courtroom. I have some court transcripts you can look at. She was a total beast of a prosecutor.” 

“Wow,” Tim says quietly. 

“She married your dad, started helping him run the company...had you.” She shrugs. “There is a gap year, though.” 

Tim blinks as he sits down on the couch across from her. “A gap year?” 

Babs nods. “You were two. She wasn’t seen anywhere in Gotham the entire year. Totally gone. Your father covered for her, said she was doing important work overseas, but there’s no record of her being any place Drake Industries had holdings.” 

“Huh.” 

“Major huh.” She nudges the box with her shoe. “What’s in there?” 

“I don’t know,” Tim admits. “The box was labeled ‘Janet,” so I grabbed it from the storage unit. Turns out, my dad wasn’t super sentimental. He didn’t keep many of her things.” 

“That’s a shame,” Babs comments. “I’m sorry, Tim.” 

“No, it’s…” he stops, because it’s not fine. It’s not fine that his father didn’t think his mother’s belongings were important enough to save. 

It’s not fine that he never mentioned her again. It’s not fine that Janet Drake was nearly erased from the face of the earth after her death, as if she were never there at all. 

It’s not fine. 

Tim takes a breath and looks at Babs. “Can I have a few minutes?” 

She grins understandingly and nods, before disappearing from the room, leaving Tim alone with the box and his memories. 

***** 

Bruce steps into the sitting room an hour later, carrying a tray of food. “Tim?” 

He looks up, blinking in the firelight, grinning tiredly. “Hey.” 

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” Bruce explains as he sets the tray down on an end table. “I’ve brought you something to eat.” 

“Thanks.” 

The older man edges closer, looking down at the items laid out carefully on the floor: 

A very well-loved copy of the Hobbit. 

A terribly old photo album.

A water-damaged passport.

A pair of tarnished, silver candle holders. 

A folder, slightly overstuffed with documents. 

“What’s all this?” Bruce asks quietly. 

“The only things left of my mother,” Tim tells him factually, looking up from the floor.

Bruce frowns and pats his shoulder gently. “I’m sorry.” 

Tim shakes his head. “I’m just- it doesn’t fit. Nothing fits.” 

Bruce takes a breath and sits on the couch, hunching forward a little. “Walk me through.” 

Tim turns around to face him and sits again. “So I get the obituary. I get the newspaper articles on my mother. After that, Obeah Man is murdered - brutally - in prison. From there, I talk to Lois about my mother, I get Babs to dig, and she finds...not much. Just basics about my... I guess my grandmother. My Step-mother doesn’t know anything, and whatever my father knew, he took to his grave. And now...and now I find this box. Labeled with my mother’s name and…” 

“And?” 

“My mother’s book, an old photo album with no discernable identification on the photos- all the writing is too faded- My grandmother’s passport - what’s left of it - a few wedding and birth certificates, and a pair of candle holders.” 

“Those aren’t just any candle holders,” Bruce tells him.

Tim frowns. 

“They’re Shabbos candle holders,” Bruce explains. “Used on the Jewish sabbath to pray with. There are Stars of David on them.” 

Tim picks one up quickly and inspects it, finding the aforementioned Star of David.

And something else. 

“What is it, Tim?” Bruce asks, leaning in closer. 

Tim blinks rapidly, as if what he’s seeing on the bottom of the candle holder will go away; as if he might be imagining it. When it doesn’t, he traces the outline of the jackal-like head of a demon. 

“Tim?” 

He turns the candle holder around to show Bruce, whose eyes widen. 

“Why would one of Ra’s Al Ghul’s symbols be inscribed on a pair of candle holders that belonged to my mother?” Tim asks slowly.

Bruce doesn’t get a chance to respond, distracted by the sounds of glass breaking elsewhere in the manor, accompanied by soft, swift footfalls. 

“There are ninjas in my house,” Bruce rumbles unhappily. 

“FATHER!” Damian’s voice yells through the house. “WHY ARE GRANDFATHER’S LACKIES ATTACKING US?!” 

Tim turns quickly, snatching up all of the items on the floor and dumping them back in the box as Bruce gets to his feet. 

He looks down at Tim and nods. “Go.” 

“What?!” Tim cries. “Go where?!” 

“Through the cave and out on your bike,” Bruce orders him as he shoves his sleeves up, his eyes trained on the door. “Whatever they’re here for, it’s in that box. So you take it, and you go. I’ll contact you when we’re all clear.” 

“But-” 

“Go, Tim,” Bruce growls as he dashes for the door and into a fight.

“I was literally just taking a bath!” Dick cries from down the hall. “Why am I fighting ninjas?! And where are my pants?!” 

***** 

He finds himself back at Drake Manor, stowing his bike in the side yard’s overgrown bushes and sneaking himself, an emergency backpack of supplies and the box in through the kitchen door. The power has been turned off for ages, so Tim pulls his phone out to fix it; quickly hacking into Gotham Gas and Electric to flip the account back to active. 

The heating system whirrs to life from somewhere in the basement, and accent lighting in the kitchen flips on too, giving the room a gentle glow that illuminates the specks of dust floating through the air.

Tim sets the box down on the island and slumps onto a stool, rubbing his face. He checks his phone, but no texts have come through, and he contemplates calling Kon or Steph; asking one or both of them for help...he could call Jason but he’s likely been called in to help with the ninjas at the manor. 

He shakes his head out and dumps the contents of the box onto the island: the candle holders (Shabbos candle holders with the sign of the Demon’s Head on them), the photo album, the passport, the files. He pulls off his backpacks and yanks out his own folder, containing the Gotham Gazette articles, as well as the obituary he was sent. 

Tim looks over everything slowly and sighs. “Mom’s mother’s name was Hailey Rabin. She married a guy named Weiss in Brighton Beach, New York. She killed herself because she had survived the Holocaust and it was too much for her. Mom practiced law before marrying Dad, taking Neo Nazis off the streets as a way to heal from her mother’s tragedy.” 

He takes a deep breath. “Mom has candle holders that are too old to be hers originally. They have the symbol of Ra’s Al Ghul on them. Why would she have them? Who did she get them from? Were they...Hailey’s?” He puffs out a breath. “Presuming they were Hailey’s...how did she even have them? Everything she owned before Ravensbrook would have been confiscated.” 

He drums his fingers on the island, nodding his head as he thinks more; as he does his best to pull the pieces together as quickly as he can. “Obeah Man was murdered in his cell using the same methods he used to kill my mother, with the added bonus that somebody took a bite out of his heart. A revenge killing, six years later, as if whoever did it only just found out about it. Which is nuts because Mom’s death was all over the news. I couldn’t get away from it when it happened…” 

Tim sighs and pulls the photo album close to him, flipping it open to gaze down at the faces looking back at him, stone serious. Most of these pictures were from before consumer cameras were available. Everyone stands or sits stock still, faces grim and stoic as they stare back. 

Except for one. 

A smiling girl with a bright, open-mouthed smile poses for a photo, as if someone has just said something funny to her. Tim can’t help smiling fondly. He’d checked the photos earlier for identifiers, but he hadn’t seen any writing on the backs of the photos...none that he could read at least. 

He flips the photo over again and narrows his eyes at the writing. “Is that...it looks like Hebrew…” He snatches up his phone again and takes a photo of the writing, pulling it up and enlarging it a little. 

“Waynetech.” 

The phone buzzes before responding. “How can I help you, Tim?” 

Tim frowns, forever disconcerted with the Waynetech phone’s personal assistant. The consumer electronics division hadn’t given it a nice name, and they’d decided to use Dick’s voice, which made the whole thing cringe-worthy to a ridiculous degree. 

“Translate the writing on my photo,” Tim orders. 

“Sure, Tim.” 

“Gah,” Tim mutters, still cringing at the computerized version of Dick’s voice. 

The phone isolates the writing and buffers for a few moments as it does its work.

“Alright, Tim,” the Waynetech assistant chimes. “This is Hewbrew for Hannah Gurenko.” 

Tim frowns even deeper. “Who?” 

“I’m sorry,” the Waynetech assistant responds. “I did not catch-” 

Tim shuts it off, shaking his head, thinking. “Why does that name sound so familiar?” he mutters. He flips through his phone’s contacts and presses the button for Barbara. 

“Hey!” Her voice chimes in when she picks up. “We’re all clear here at the manor, but B says to stay put for now.” 

“Does the name Hannah Gurenko ring any bells for you?” Tim asks, ignoring everything she said. 

“Hannah Gurenko?” Babs asks. “Like...Nyssa Al Ghul’s dead daughter, Hannah Gurenko?” 

Tim freezes. “Ny-” 

“She died in the Holocaust,” Babs reminds him.

“I gotta go,” Tim says before she can say anything else, and ends to call, dropping the phone on the island and scrambling with the artifacts laid out before him, grabbing the photo of Hannah, as well as Hailey Rabin’s passport, flipping it open. 

Oh. 

_Oh._

The same eyes stare back at him. The same serious face. The same long hair. 

“Hannah Gurenko was Hailey Rabin. Hailey Rabin was Nyssa Al Ghul’s daughter.” 

Tim swallows hard. 

“Nyssa Al Ghul was my great grandmother.” 

***** 

“Did you know?” 

Bruce shakes his head as Tim paces before him in the cave. “No.” 

“Are you sure you didn’t know?” Tim asks, looking frantic. It’s been an hour since he returned to the Manor, and he’s just not finding his voice again. “This seems like the sort of thing-” 

“Nyssa died years ago,” Bruce cuts him off. “And in looking up your family…” he shakes his head again. “The statistics on Holocaust survivors who eventually took their own lives are astronomical. Nothing felt like a red flag.” 

Tim takes a deep breath. “Obeah Man’s death was a revenge killing,” he says. 

“Yes,” Bruce says. “Yes, it was.” 

“Somebody just found out that Obeah Man killed Janet Drake,” Tim goes on. “And took their revenge.” 

Bruce stays quiet. “We both know who.” 

Tim swallows hard, staring at the older man. 

“He’ll be coming for you next,” Bruce goes on. “So we’ll have to be ready.” 

He nods, leaning against the computer and tapping his fingers a little. “The obituary...the one that was sent to me...you think Ra’s sent it?” 

Tim watches Bruce think about that for a long moment. “I don’t know why he would want to put you on the scent of all this. It certainly seems like him, but I don’t see the endgame.” 

They both look to the computer as it blinks, finished with the DNA test they’d been running. The word “MATCH” pops in bold blue letters. 

“So I’m an Al Ghul,” Tim sighs. 

“You’re Tim,” Bruce corrects him. “You are whoever you want to be. Just like all of us.” 

They stand in silence as Bruce grips his shoulder affectionately. 

“Do I have to tell Damian?” Tim asks. 

Bruce blinks and stays quiet for a long moment, and opens his mouth to answer, but doesn’t get the chance. 

“Perhaps not right away,” a woman’s voice, softly accented with something that may be Russian or Easter European, chuckles from behind them. 

Tim turns slowly, as a woman who looks a little like Talia - darker hair, a stronger nose - steps out of the shadows. 

“Hello, Great-Grandson,” Nyssa smiles. “It is so good to finally see your face in person.” 

***** 

Tim occupies a corner of Bruce’s office, watches Nyssa like a hawk as she sips tea in her seat across from the desk. 

Tim recognizes every other movement. Every third lip twitch, and every single raise of an eyebrow. 

It’s eerie. Like watching someone mimic his mother, except not.

“You could sit down, Timothy,” she tells him. “We have much to discuss.” 

“I’m good,” Tim says. 

“How are you alive?” Bruce asks. “And where have you been for all these years?” 

“My sister’s attempts on my life were a joke,” Nyssa snorts. “As if she could kill me. How silly. As for where I’ve been...I decided to stay in hiding. After little Damian came along, everything seemed to get more and more complicated. So I’ve mostly been traveling under assumed names.” 

“And now?” 

“Now, my great-grandson’s life is being threatened by my father,” Nyssa says. “And not just because he’s one of yours, Bruce Wayne. But because Ra’s has found out Timothy’s true identity.” 

Tim looks at her and then looks away. 

“When I found out my Hannah had lived for a time, I decided, in secret, to ensure her and her family’s safety from the curse of Al Ghul,” Nyssa explains. “I headed Ra’s off at every pass I could. I scrubbed any trace that linked Hannah Gurenko to Hailey Rabin. The only things left were the items in her own possession that were passed to Janet, who hadn’t a clue. I assumed they’ve just been collecting dust, as things nobody thinks about.” 

“What about the candle holders?” Tim asks. “How did she get them?” 

“They were returned to me after the war,” Nyssa tells him, then grins slyly. “Well...I say returned…” 

“You killed whoever had them,” Bruce surmises. 

Nyssa waves a hand. “Nazis do not count. In any case, I got them back, and I had them sent to Janet when she married Jack Drake. An anonymous wedding gift.”

“How did Ra’s find out?” Tim asks. 

“It is my fault,” she admits bitterly. “Talia showed up at my doorstep recently, and I went back to confront Ra’s...and as we argued, I...said some things I should not have. I sent the obituary along, knowing you would pick up the clues...figure things out. It was a covert way to make it happen without alerting Ra’s.” 

“So now he’s here for Tim,” Bruce says. 

“He is,” Nyssa nods, turning to Tim again. “I am sorry, darling boy. I have brought this down on your head. But you are not wholly unprepared, thankfully. Your mentor has trained you well to handle Ra’s, no matter what your decision is.” 

“My decision?” Tim asks, bewildered. 

Nyssa shrugs. “Now that you know, you have a choice: refuse Ra’s, who will absolutely ask you to be the new heir of the Demon’s Head. Or accept. As much as I would not recommend you take the offer, it is your life. If that’s what you wish to be, I cannot stop you. And you’d probably do a better job than Ra’s anyways.” 

“I just want to go back to medical school,” Tim tells her. 

“Fair enough,” she nods, getting to her feet and setting her tea cup down. “Then we’ll just have to kill Ra’s. Again.” 

“No,” Bruce says. 

“Oh, please,” Nyssa groans. “Do not pull that ‘no killing’ drivel out. I beg you.” 

“Tim is not killing Ra’s,” Bruce argues. 

“Timothy will do whatever he likes, because Timothy is an adult,” Nyssa tells him. “He can make up his own mind on what needs to be done.” 

“What you think needs to be done,” Bruce corrects. “You’re not much better than your father, Nyssa. You sound just like him.” 

She narrows her eyes at him. “Say that again, and I will garrot you with that fancy letter opener on your desk.” 

“I’m not killing Ra’s, and nobody is getting garroted,” Tim snaps, stepping over to them finally. “I don’t want to kill anyone, and besides that, I haven’t been training. I’ve been studying. I’m out of practice, I don’t stand a chance.” He blows out a breath and looks at Nyssa. “What are the chances that I can reason with him?” 

“Few,” she tells him, reaching out to takes his hands in hers, squeezing gently. “You know Ra’s well enough to understand that he does not take rejection very well.” 

“Yeah, I remember,” Tim nods. “The last time I told him no, he kicked my ass and punted me out a window several stories above the city.”

Nyssa’s eye twitches. “He did what?” 

Bruce rubs his eyes. “Tim.” 

“Oh. I guess that’s not common knowledge,” Tim grins sheepishly. 

His great-grandmother takes a deep breath and composes herself. “If you’ll excuse me. I have to go commit patricide. Again.” 

Tim blinks as he watches her storm gracefully out of the room. He turns to Bruce. “It’d be weird if I called her ‘Nana,’ right?” 

Bruce gets to his feet. “Cave. Suits. Now.”  
Tim stands still for a long, quiet moment as Bruce heads for the grandfather clock. 

“You know what?” he says softly. “I don’t wanna do this.” 

Bruce turns back to look at him. 

He shrugs. “I don’t wanna do this. I don’t wanna be the rope in Ra’s and Nyssa’s stupid tug of war. I don’t wanna contend with the demons of my family’s past. Hannah- Haley - left them all behind. She escaped, and she came here to the US to start over, and I know it didn’t work, but I’m only here because she tried.” 

Bruce steps over to him slowly. 

“You were right,” Tim goes goes. “I’m whoever I wanna be. I’m Tim Drake-Wayne. I’m on break from med school, here to spend the holidays with my family. I think Hailey...and my mom...would be proud of that. I don’t need to give Ra’s an answer. I already gave it to him. Nothing’s changed.” 

Bruce grins at him, and hugs him tightly, patting his shoulder before pulling away. “I’m proud of you, too. But I still have to go stop Nyssa from killing Ra’s again.” 

Tim nods. “You want my help?” 

“Of course I do.” His grin widens. “Batman needs a Robin, after all.” 

***** 

“Tt. No wonder we’re drive each other insane. We’re related!” 

Tim puts his coffee mug down and lifts an eyebrow at Damian. “It’s mostly you driving me insane.” 

“Like you’re so innocent.” 

“You’ve tried to kill me multiple times!” Tim cries. 

“And I am not the first family member to do so,” Damian reminds him. “What does that say about you, Drake?” 

“Boys,” Bruce warns from behind his own coffee cup. 

It had been a long night, tracking Nyssa and Ra’s down, and then making certain that neither killed the other, to say nothing of Tim’s efforts to avoid the subject of being one of Ra’s heirs, and the older man’s attempts to kill Tim again.

In the end, both Ra’s and Nyssa had disappeared into the night, once it became clear to Ra’s that Bruce and Nyssa were not going to let him harm Tim.

“So Bruce avoided shirtless sword fights this time?” Dick teases as everyone sits in Wayne Manor’s dining room for breakfast. “I’m impressed.” 

Bruce rolls his eyes. 

A hand lands on Tim’s arm and he looks at Cass, sitting next to him, her eyes looking curious and concerned. 

“You’re okay?” she asks. 

He thinks about that, and nods. “Yeah. You know what? I am. None of this changes who I’ve been in my life, or who I want to be.” He looks around the table at his family. “It does, however, make me want to be better.” 

Dick smiles warmly at him. “You’re already studying to save lives. What else do you wanna do?” 

Tim shrugs. “Well, Drake Manor is just kind of abandoned. It’s big and completely unoccupied.” 

“What are you thinking?” Bruce asks, quirking an eyebrow. 

“I dunno,” Tim muses. “Orphanage? Medical research center? Homeless housing? Something to help.” 

“Fuckin’ boy scout,” Jason smirks. “Not that any of those things are bad ideas. I just wanted to call you names.” 

“You want help?” Duke asks Tim. “As much as my internship at Waynetech is cool...it’d be nice to do more to give back to the community.” 

“You mean besides putting dangerous criminals in prison?” Damian says. “We do plenty for this city.” 

“There’s always more work,” Bruce tells him gently. “Your brother has some good ideas. You should listen.” 

Tim smirks widely. “Actually, I’m his first cousin, twice removed.” 

“Augh!” Damian cries. “Father, make him stop!” 

***** 

The holidays fly by in a flurry of gifts, get-togethers with friends and charity events. Tim makes out well, with gadgets and some new clothing, as well as some new books. Stephanie got him a waffle iron for his on-campus apartment, and he knows he’ll have to use it and send her photos.

A package arrives for him the day before he leaves; the same handwriting that was on the obituary’s envelope looping elegantly on this one. He opens it carefully and finds a very old knife, the handle ornate and silver. 

This time, there’s a note included: 

“Happy holidays, Darling boy,” Nyssa writes. “Until we meet again.”

Tim takes a breath, and packs it into his things to go back to school.

“I can’t believe you’re going back so soon.” 

He turns to Bruce, who stands in his bedroom doorway, looking slightly more melancholy than usual. 

Tim grins. “You have an entire house full of kids and a city full of crime. You won’t miss me.” 

“I miss all my children when they aren’t here,” Bruce tells him. He crosses his arms, watching Tim carefully. “In light of everything you know now, I’m glad you still feel apart of this family. And I’m sorry that your lineage isn’t something I looked into harder.” 

“Why would you?” TIm asks as he folds a new sweater Alfred had given him. “Everything about my parents and grandparents seemed so normal. You can’t treat every single thing that comes your way as a mystery to solve. You’ll go nuts.” 

“I’m already nuts,” Bruce reminds him. “So I’m told.” 

“There are nutser.” 

Bruce chuckles. “You’re really okay?” 

Tim blows out a breath and looks up at him. “Ra’s will come knocking again. He always does. I’ll just have to pick back up my training on a more regular basis than I have been. Hell, it might even get me a date.”  
“Do not count on it,” Damian’s voice says from behind Bruce. 

“Shut it, Grandpa,” Tim snaps playfully. 

“I am no one’s grandfather!” Damian cries. “And anyways, Pennyworth says dinner is ready.” 

“We’ll be down in a moment,” Bruce promises, watching Damian stomp off back down the stairs before turning back to Tim. “Tim...whatever happens, whoever you’re biologically related to, you will always be one of my sons.” 

“I know,” Tim grins. “Let’s go get some dinner.” 

***** 

His apartment on campus is chilly when he steps inside, setting his things down by the door and rushing to the thermostat. 

He briefly wonders if it might be nice to have a pet to come home to; a happy dog to greet him, or a cat to press up against his legs and then walk off to take a nap somewhere. He’s about to text the thought to Kon, when a lamp in the living room flips on, seemingly by itself. 

Except not.

Ra’s Al Ghul is sitting in his favorite chair. 

“Hello, Ra’s. I hope you’re comfortable in my chair,” Tim comments, unable to even feign surprise at seeing the older man. 

“You knew I would come,” Ra’s surmises. 

“Yeah, I figured,” Tim says, shrugging out of his coat. “But if you’re here to kill me, I’d appreciate it if you’d dispense with the monologues about how disappointing I am as an heir and just get it over with.” 

Ra’s chuckles and gets to his feet, moving slowly towards Tim, who heads for the kitchen to grab a Coke from the fridge. “You remind me of your great-grandmother. She, too, has no time for my...how does Nyssa put it? My ‘egotistical bluster.’” 

“Sounds like a fair assessment,” Tim nods. “So?” 

“I suppose I am...I am confused,” Ra’s admits. “Curious, mostly. About how you choose, time and again, even now, with the knowledge that you are one of my true heirs, to walk this...banal, pointless path.” 

“Because I’m not like you,” Tim tells him simply. “I’ve never been like you. I think maybe I tried a couple of times, to look at the bigger picture...to look at the world in macro-view...look to the future the way you see it.” He shrugs. “But I just felt blind to everything that actually mattered. Like people.” 

“People are a plague,” Ra’s argues. 

“On a large scale, yeah,” Tim agrees. “But people...real, individual people, living their lives, making the best of what is almost always a bad situation, always hoping for better? Always trying harder?” He nods to himself. “That’s where my focus is. Where I try to keep it.” 

Ra’s watches him carefully, looking him in the eyes as Tim cracks open his Coke and takes a sip, and then heads slowly for the door. 

“Goodbye, Timothy.” 

Tim watches him go and shakes his head as the door shuts behind him. “My life is weird.” He pulls his phone out and dials Kon. 

“Hey, Man!” 

“Hey,” Tim grins. “What do you think about me getting a pet?” 

“Do it!” Kon cries. “You can steal one of Damian’s, he’s got like twenty, right? You could take the cow.” 

“Yeah, cuz the housing board on-campus would be thrilled with that,” Tim laughs. “Hey, I think Duke and I are gonna turn my parents’ old house into something cool to help Gotham. You wanna help?” 

“Sure,” Kon chirps. “Sounds good for my karma. I bet Bart and Cassie and Steph would be in, too.” 

Tim grins. “Yeah. Yeah, they probably would.” 

“You could turn it into a roller rink,” Kon offers. “Like...for the homeless.” 

“...You’re the worst.” 

END


End file.
